


A Cloak of Feathers

by ReneAusten



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Pre-Thor (2011), Romance on the side
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:44:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReneAusten/pseuds/ReneAusten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has stolen Thor's Hammer, and retrieving it will take a clever scheme, a long journey, several of Loki's sly disguises, and guidance from a most unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_This story was written for the 2014 Norse Big Bang at Livejournal. My art partner in that endeavor is[Stormbrite](stormbrite.tumblr.com), whose artwork for this story can be found [here](http://stormbrite.livejournal.com/1866.html)._

* * *

**_  
Wild was Thor the Hurler when he awoke,_ **

**_And when his mighty hammer he missed;_ **

**_He shook his beard, his hair was bristling,_ **

**_As the son of Jorth about him sought._ **

_-Thrymskvitha,_ stave 1

Asgard. The Realm Eternal . . .

There is a chamber, deep within the towering central spire of Odin's House. Its walls are gently curved, like the prow of a ship, and thickly gilded; they whisper of ancient majesty and old secrets. The furnishings are sparse, with two chairs perched sentinel-like along each wall, a rich tapestry hung over the door, and, in the room's center, a plinth, crafted of honey-hued stone. Atop it rests a single object, a helmet so battered that its dents and crevices swallow the room's light rather than reflect it. The cheekpieces were once etched with swirling lines and angular runes, but only faint traces remain, their ghostly, half-heard voices chanting a forgotten tune. The nose-guard is missing, broken off in some distant battle, but the horns still sweep forward in bony rings, the horns of a bull, although surely no creature this formidable has ever peacefully grazed the pastures of Asgard.

It's not a beautiful relic, and its obvious antiquity alone does not explain the reverence of its setting here. Below it, a line of runes is inscribed deeply into the plinth's pale stone. If you possessed the knowledge of the runespeech, and you dared to step near, you could read them:

 _The Helm of Buri, Father of Bor, Father of Odin, King of Asgard_.

Standing closer, now, bending your neck to inspect its timeworn surface, you realize that it still makes one claim to beauty. There, imbedded in the dull steel, above the broken nose-guard, you see . . . a jewel, darkest blue, almost black, and yet glowing with a cold fire at its heart, a fire that the uncounted years have failed to quench. It's not a raw stone: you can see that it's been carefully carved. In fact, those facets form some sort of pattern, don't they? You lean in, nearer still, frowning, and then pull back with a startled gasp, a faint chill spidering across your shoulders. You've peered directly into the past, and it's staring back at you, because the jewel is carved in the likeness of an eye, and even sunk in its recess, there on the brow of the helmet, you can see that it is not an Asgardian eye. Not a human eye.

You swallow uneasily.

Still, it's a lovely, lovely thing. Its fire is hypnotic. And, standing there, gazing into it, you catch the whisper of its siren song, and you perceive, dimly, that this is possibly the sort of gem that inspires envy, and greed, and murder . . .

Possibly.

* * *

In a half-timbered tavern, built hard against the city's massive wall, Lady Sif, warrior of Asgard, leaned an elbow on the planked table, and a strong-boned chin upon her hand, and considered her fellow warriors. Or, to be truthful, one of her fellow warriors.

It had become a point of pride, she realized, to dismiss his charm. Though, of course, she had known him long and she well understood that under his rakehell grin and his extravagant courtesies lay a steadiness of heart and a kind of unthinking courage, and these imbued his easy address with a gravity that drew the maidens of Asgard like comets in orbit around a deep-massed star. An irresistible weight. Fandral the Dashing.

But she had resisted his magnetic pull. Because Lady Sif, forged in battle, did not orbit any man.

In her heart of hearts, where her own steady gravity crushed any foolish self-deception, she knew also this truth: that there is no great triumph in resisting when the man in question has not offered any overt invitations. When instead of bowing over a lady's hand and pressing his lips to the sensitive skin between the knuckles, he claps her on the shoulder, and praises the strength of her arm with a spear, and offers her an overflowing tankard of mead in comradely good-fellowship.

She watched him, now, over the rim of the tankard, as he reclined against the tavern's far wall, long legs stretched out and ankles crossed, one arm draped over the shoulders of a dark-haired maid, the other stretched along the bench's back, fingers resting gently against another maiden's bare upper arm.

He was chuckling at some jest offered by yet a third while she leaned against a chair, eyes flashing with the electricity that he seemed able to generate in the hearts of his admirers without making any more effort than merely being himself.

Charming Fandral.

Her vision slipped inward, and another laughing face, full of life, presented itself, a flash of white teeth bared in a wide grin, warm brown eyes narrowed in jest. She allowed her mind's eye to contemplate it, for a taut, stretched moment, and then she carefully pushed it down and away, back into the vaults of memory. Because Haldor belonged to Valhalla, and had for many years, and Lady Sif dwelt in Asgard.

She lifted her drink a spare inch further, and sipped, grimacing. At her elbow, a young warrior of the Guard said, a trifle anxiously, "Does the mead not please you, Lady Sif? Would you rather have wine?"

"I would, yes," she smiled, absently, setting the tankard down, and glancing over at him. Her gaze sharpened, then, at the worshipful adoration in his face.

"I will fetch some to you," he said fervently, and leaped to this task before she could assure him that there was no real need.

She frowned. In that deep honest place in her heart, she knew that she had no desire for the worship of an eager young pup, however handsome he may be. She would rather, she knew, run with a wolf.

Her gaze returned to Fandral, and then her fingers tightened along the tankard's slippery handle as she discovered his eyes resting on her, the faintest of scowls marring his fine brow.

It disappeared at once, and he gave her instead an impudent, friendly wink, the salute of one warrior to another, and then bent his head toward the dark-haired maiden, smile broadening at something she said.

 _Ah yes. We are friends and comrades of old, you and I_ , she thought.  _But if that is all that we are, why would you frown to see me smile upon another?_

She looked away, and her gaze snared on another's, gleaming green, as Loki, Prince of Asgard, glanced up in the act of reaching for his own tankard. He was elegantly sprawled in a leather-padded chair tucked in the corner; a small table near to hand held a ragged-covered book, propped open with a dagger's hilt, and a trencher laden with crusty bread, several slices of cured meat piled against a wedge of cheese, and a cluster of scarlet berries.

He arched a brow and saluted her, briefly, with the rim of his cup. She nodded in return, and then allowed a tiny, cynical smile to touch her lips, as a flurry of tavern maids hid the prince from view. No doubt they'd been watching like hungry ravens, waiting for him to lay a finger on his cup and thus give them the excuse to flock near and refill it. Every tavern in the city aspired to the honor of the royal family's patronage, and this particular one was not at all willing to give up its place as a favorite of both Loki and his brother.

And, as if that thought had summoned him, the tavern's front door burst open with a crash that echoed among the mead barrels, and Thor, son of Odin, crown prince of Asgard, stumbled through the portal and half-fell against the nearest table, causing the burly shopkeeper seated there to choke on his ale with a gasp and a sputter.

For a startled instant, Sif thought Thor was too deep in his cups, a circumstance rare indeed. But she saw then that his cloak was disheveled, streaked with dirt and the sickly green of crushed moss, and a network of dried blood trailed down his forearm, seeping from an angry, welted scrape along his elbow. The lining of his vambrace was dark with it.

"Helfrost," she cursed, under her breath, and leaped to her feet. Around her, the tavern's cacophony skipped a beat, as Thor levered himself upward with both hands, shook his head as if to clear it, and roared out, "Ale!"

A barmaid came scuttling past, tray held high, honey-scented liquid slopping over a tankard's rim. She swung it down before him, and he seized it, raised it to his lips and gulped it down. By the time he'd lowered it, Sif had reached his side and stood contemplating him, both brows raised.

"Disagreement with your horse?" she murmured. It certainly looked as if he'd been thrown. And yet . . . Thor was a masterful rider, and had been since boyhood.

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and shook his head. He lifted the cup for another swallow; she saw that his knuckles were bruised and scuffed, and one fingernail was torn and bleeding.

"What happened?" she exclaimed. Fandral materialized, just then. He stared at Thor, for a moment, and then drawled, slowly, "Do we need to bury a few sundry bodies? Shall I fetch a spade?"

Around them, the clamor had risen back to its customary deafening roar, but Sif could feel the sidelong glances of many eyes.

"Can't speak of it here." Thor tossed the empty tankard onto the tray of a passing maid. "I require Loki. Is he about?"

"I am always present when required. One of my many talents," came the cool voice, and Sif turned to find Loki at her shoulder, tucking his dagger into his belt, where the battered book was already secured. Now he lifted his chin, eyeing Thor dubiously. "Busy day, brother?"

"Not as busy as it's going to be," Thor muttered. His eyes were blazing with barely-suppressed rage. "Come, somewhere where we can speak. At once."

Loki's mouth quirked into its half-smile. "The kitchen? The privy? Or . . . yes. Of course! The library?"

Thor turned to glare at him, and as he did the light from the tavern's flickering lanterns glistened on the wet darkness soaking the hair behind his ear. Loki's face hardened. He tilted his head, brow furrowing, and then grasped Thor's shoulder.

"Someone struck you, brother?" His voice had lost the hint of wry amusement.

"What?" Fandral's hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. "Who in Asgard harbors such a desire for certain destruction?"

"Aye," Thor grunted. "Come, we must speak. All of us."

He pulled them out through the tavern's entryway and around the corner into the narrow passageway along the tavern's side wall. Then, his eyes glittering with fury in the star-lit darkness, he rasped, "Someone's taken Mjolnir."

For several long breaths, the night air around them contained only the muffled roar of the tavern.

Then, Fandral cleared his throat. "What was that?"

"You heard me rightly."

"Taken _Mjolnir_? Mjolnir? Hammer-shaped object, useless to anyone but you?" Fandral's voice was incredulous.

"Yes! Mjolnir! And clearly is it's useful to someone," Thor growled, "since it's been taken!"

"Who?" Sif asked.

Loki was shaking his head. "More importantly, how?"

"I'd be more than pleased to tell you, if I knew."

All three stared at him. Finally, Loki said, with the air of someone reaching out toward sanity, "You were struck from behind."

Thor's hand lifted to gingerly finger the wound on his scalp. "Yes," he muttered. Small as it was, the one word contained a raging conflagration of humiliation and dismay.

Fandral slapped a fist into his open palm. "Still impossible, though, my friend! Who possesses that sort of strength? Or stealth? You are no innocent cub to be bagged so easily!"

"Perhaps it wasn't an enemy," Loki said, studying Thor's face. "Or didn't seem to be."

SIf could feel the anger radiating off Thor's shoulders. Quietly, she said, "Will you tell us what happened, Thor?"

A moment of tense silence. Then Thor straightened, and gathered himself. "Come before dawn tomorrow, to the Stables," he said. " We'll ride out of the city. And I'll show you."

* * *

Thor drew rein as they plunged out of the forest's shadow into a clearing, hoofbeats suddenly muffled by a carpet of dew-laden grass.

"Here," he said, the corner of one lip lifted in a disgusted sneer. He swung out of the saddle and strode to the far edge, wrapped in a cloak of cooling rage and warming uncertainty.

The others followed suit, an uneasy silence descending over them as their practiced eyes swept the clearing and its pretense of quiet beauty withered. To one side, several areas of blackened earth were laid out in a haphazard circle, piled with the gray remnants of dead fire and bound with stones; a crude rack for smoking meat lay toppled nearby. The grass around them was tangled and crushed; a number of heavy bodies had walked and lain there. The trees along the clearing's edges were shorn of their lower limbs, and long strips of bark had been stripped away, leaving gaping wounds. The faint, piney scent of oozing sap hung in the air, mixing queasily with a coppery sweet odor that could only be spilled and drying blood. Fandral had drawn his sword; after a moment he pointed with its tip toward a crumpled pile of fur and bones: the remains of several creatures, quickly and callously butchered.

"This looks like a troll camp," Sif said, slowly. "A small one, but still . . . "

Her voice drained away as her eye caught a glint of white, near one toe. She drew a dagger from her boot and sank to a knee, prying an object out of the damp soil. Her lips thinned in distaste as she lifted it for all of them to see: the small skull of some unfortunate rodent, a neat hole drilled front and back, with a leather thong still threaded through.

A troll ornament.

"Trolls." Fandral crouched beside her, studying it. He looked up at Thor. "This near at hand to the city? Hardly a cheerful thought."

"Indeed," Sif murmured. She tossed the skull away and stood, wiping her fingertips against her cloak. She turned to Thor, as well. "And this is where you were attacked? By trolls?"

Loki was crouched beside on of the firepits, sifting the cold ash through his fingers. He shook his head, his face abstracted and intent. "No troll yet lives who possesses that sort of lightness of foot. Thor would have heard it approaching, long before it struck." He glanced over at his brother, brows lifted. "Yes?"

"Yes." Thor kicked moodily at the bent grass under his feet. "It was not a troll."

Fandral straightened. He sheathed his sword, darting a swift, troubled frown at Sif. "What, then? Can you not tell us the tale of your adventures here? So far you've given us little with which to surmise."

Thor shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, glared fiercely at the trees lining the clearing's borders. Finally, after a moment, he spoke. "I was here . . . I came here after the trolls were gone. The ashes were still warm, though, and I was disturbed. As you said, Fandral, so near to the city! Such insolence on their part is not to be borne! I vowed to follow them, and dismounted to search for tracks. And then . . . "

His voice trailed off as his jaw tightened and lips stretched into a grimace.

Loki looked up from his examination of the firepit, and prompted, "Then?"

Thor shrugged, spreading both hands, a muscle working in one cheek. "Then . . . nothing. Nothing but blackness. I woke later, sprawled upon the ground like a benighted fool. My head was ringing more loudly than the last day of a three-day feast. And when I'd stumbled to my feet, I reached for the Hammer, and it was gone. Not to be found. Stolen."

He repeated the word, grinding both syllables out wrathfully. "Stolen!"

"But . . . your other injuries?" Loki pointed. "Your arm. Your hands . . ." Then his shoulders drew back as he stood, eyes brightening. A chuckle rumbled up through his throat. "You did not merely stumble upon this camp, did you? You've been hunting trolls!"

Thor scowled at him. "They have no business this far down from the mountains! I was merely encouraging them to take themselves off."

"By engaging them in battle?"

"What of it!"

Fandral's brow creased. "Yes. What of it?" He turned to Loki, rocking back on to one heel. "It's not as if hunting trolls were so very unusual an entertainment for Thor to pursue."

Loki glanced over at him. "It is since Father has forbidden it." He looked back at his brother, eyes alight with mischief. "Or, at least, it should have been. What say you, brother?"

Sif cocked her head to one side, staring at Thor. "The Allfather has forbidden the hunting of trolls? Since when?"

"Since the clan leader left a trussed stag outside the city gates, several moons past." Loki answered. "As a request of truce, you see, and an event unprecedented in the history of Asgard, I assure you. And the exigencies of politics demand that we, and especially you, brother, rein in our natural response to trolls, which is, in fact, to usher them to the cold plains of Hel as speedily as possible."

Thor growled. "If they truly desired a truce, why send a battle party this close to the city? They are foul creatures. They have no honor! It's some sort of treachery on their part, to prey upon our people."

Loki pursed his lips, nodding. "All true, no doubt, and yet Father must do what he must. This is why he is King, and you are not." The warm light cooled in his eyes, then, and he said, slowly, "He will not be pleased to find that you have broken the truce, brother."

Thor looked away.

Fandral blew out a breath, shaking his head. "Political intrigue aside, the fact remains that someone struck Thor down. Someone was  _able_  to strike Thor down. Surely that is the issue that demands our attention?"

After a moment, Thor nodded, though his eyes remained fixed on Loki until the younger prince smiled, briefly, and nodded as well, and the tension that had suddenly arisen between them melted away. Sif found, to her slight puzzlement, that she'd been holding her breath.

Thor turned, sweeping a hand toward the dead fire. "I was kneeling there when the coward struck."

As their faces lifted to follow his gesture, the rising sun crested the trees lining that edge of the clearing, silhouetting the tall slim boles and arching branches, and gleaming, a subtle, glowing iridescence, off the fine black feathers of two large ravens perched motionless on a low-slung limb, staring at them.

Sif stepped back, half a stride, biting back a startled oath. One of the birds shifted along the branch, and its black eye reflected the sun's rays like a tiny, bottomless pool. Then its head swiveled slowly, as its inscrutable gaze touched each of them. After a moment, its companion clicked its beak and stretched out its wings, and, uttering a loud caw that shattered the clearing's still air, it glided out and down and landed with a graceful hop on the far side of the fire circle.

It bobbed its head, eyeing them silently, and then dipped and pecked, deliberately, at the ground: once, twice, thrice. When it lifted its head, and found them staring with varying degrees of bafflement, it snapped its beak and emitted a harsh squawk. The raven still in the tree let fly with an echoing cry, and ruffled all its feathers, twisting its head to glare at them, impatience clear in every movement. It flapped its wings disgustedly and then, placing its feet with care, turned round completely on its perch and presented them with its back, tail flicking meaningfully.

"What . . .?" Fandral's hands were on his hips. "Does anyone else feel that this bird is a bit rude?"

The raven on the ground chittered; its companion took wing and swept around and down, directly toward them, eyes glittering. Thor grimaced and ducked, Fandral spun to one side and Loki slid to the other, a puzzled frown lowering his brow. Sif stood her ground, and found she had drawn her dagger.

The sun's rays slipped higher, flowing down the trees' trunks to pool softly on the ground. Suddenly, Loki leaned forward and pointed; there, on the ground at the first raven's clawed toes, something was glittering in the light.

The raven blinked both eyes as Loki came swiftly around the firepit, and stabbed down at the shining thing, one final time, with its strong black beak.

"What is it?" Thor asked as Loki crouched. The raven had hopped to the side, and then flapped upward to perch once more in the tree. It let out another caw as Loki held up a tiny metal object. Its faceted edges winked malevolently as it caught the sunlight.

"A leaf of scale mail," he said, voice thoughtful. "From some richly-crafted armor, I would think."

He straightened, holding it higher so that they could see, and at that moment, in a flash of stiff black feathers, the other raven, who'd been gliding in noiseless circles overhead, swooped down and plucked it from his fingers.

Loki whirled. As the raven alighted on its perch, its fellow chirruped and bobbed its head.

"Come now," Loki said, raising one hand to shield his eyes against the sun. "Give it back, if you please."

The others came to stand beside him, squinting upward. The birds stared down at them, unblinking, and then the thief delicately shifted the leaf of mail from its beak to one of its claws. The other bent and tapped its beak against the metal: tik, tik, tik.

Thor snorted, a huff of pure impatience. Loki said, slowly, "This is . . . interesting."

Sif slanted a glance at him. "Is it? Ravens are always fond of glittering objects."

"Yes, but not usually in quite so pointed a way."

Fandral gestured toward the thieves with his chin, "And not with so evident a desire to be impertinent."

"Pert or no, we must examine that piece of mail. It wasn't weathered. It hadn't lain there long. Surely it was dropped by Thor's attacker."

Thor glowered upward. "Right."

He ran forward, and with a single leap, caught hold of the bough on which the ravens were perched with one hand, swinging the other hand forward.

"No. Brother!" Loki snapped. "They'll only . . . "

With an enraged screech, the ravens exploded upward in a flurry of wings and tail feathers.

" . . . fly away." Loki finished.

They lighted high in another tree, on the clearing's opposite edge. Sif sighed, and exchanged a glance with Fandral, who shrugged.

"Perhaps we could offer them something in exchange," he said.

Loki looked over at him, shoulders straightening. "That's an excellent idea."

"Naturally," Fandral said. "Although I must say, you needn't sound so very surprised."

"Something in exchange . . . ," Sif murmured, and a sudden memory struck her. She ran back into the center of the clearing, her back bent, eyes sweeping the ground. Then, with a tight smile of triumph, she bent and plucked a small knot of white bone out of the grass: the discarded troll ornament.

"Something like this, perhaps?" She tossed it toward Loki, who caught it with a grin. He eased his way along the clearing's border, his eyes on the birds' new perch. As he moved out of the trees' shadow, he lifted a hand; the tiny skull dangled from his fingers, bright in the sunlight.

The ravens watched him come, their heads tilting in fascination, eyes blinking in perfect unison. When Loki paused, near the foot of their tree, they fluttered to a lower branch, their black gaze held captive by the little ornament as it swayed back and forth. Along the other edge of the clearing, Fandral was slipping silently forward, shrugging his cloak from his shoulders and gathering it up in both hands.

Loki's gaze flickered to the side, measuring his progress, and then he swung the tempting prize closer. With a whirr of wings the ravens swooped at it, and Fandral sprang forward and flung his cloak over them.

For a moment, the clearing was a cauldron of indignant screeching; there was a boiling froth of woolen fabric and glossy black feathers, and then a whirl of snatching claws and a snapping beak. When silence blossomed once more, Fandral's cloak had settled in gentle folds on the ground, and the two birds were secure in the topmost branches of a clump of thorny brambles, glaring at them all with magisterial fury. From one of the beaks, the link of scale mail still gleamed, out of reach; from the other, the tiny skull hung twisting back and forth, eyeholes winking, as if the spirit of its long-dead occupant were joining the ravens in mocking them.

At Sif's side, Thor drew a frustrated breath and roared, "By all the  _Hels_!"

"We do realize that we are being forced to play the fool by a couple of simple birds, do we not?" Sif said.

Loki's gaze remained fixed on the creatures, but his lips pressed together into a thoughtful smirk.

"Are they, though?"

Thor strode forward to stand beside him, raking the birds with a fearful glower. "What is your meaning, brother?"

"Perhaps these birds are more than merely chance onlookers." He raised his voice, the corner of his mouth curling up in amusement. "I think we've met before. In a much more formal setting."

There was a chuffing caw. The ravens peered at him expectantly. Then, together, they both tilted their heads and slowly, both of them, closed one eye.

Sif felt a shiver of unease skitter down her spine. "Do you mean . . . are you saying that you believe these creatures to be the Allfather's birds?"

Loki's eyes slid over to her face, and he winked.

"But that cannot be. Father's ravens never leave the House." Thor's voice was gruff, but Sif heard the same uneasiness swirling in its lower registers, and she understood well what he was feeling. Odin's ravens were ever-present at the Allfather's side, and, although they seemed to be simple birds, the suggestion that they were also something more always lingered about them.

"'Never' is too strong a term, brother," Loki said. "Say rather, 'rarely'."

"I will say neither." Thor crossed his arms over his chest, and then winced as the movement pulled on the wound across his forearm. "These are not they. We would have recognized Father's ravens at once."

One of them took flight, at that. It dropped the troll ornament at Loki's feet, and then skimmed through the air like a thrown dagger, directly at Thor's face. He grunted in alarm and backpedaled several steps, but the bird settled on his shoulder and clicked its beak meaningfully. Thor's eyes blazed; his chest expanded to let out a bellow.

"Don't move!" Sif cried, in the same moment that Fandral hissed, "Don't frighten it." Loki had raised a hand, urging caution, stifled laughter tightening his jaw.

Thor stiffened, motionless though his mouth pressed into a wrathfully stern line. With delicate precision, the raven reached up and pulled several of his golden locks forward, tugging and arranging, and then cocking its head to one side to study its work, until one of Thor's eyes was completely obscured, and he stood glaring out of the other, in a passing likeness to Odin One-Eye himself.

Sif only barely managed to swallow a snort of amusement; a glance at Fandral showed him palming a grin from his face.

"There now," Loki murmured. "Are you absolutely certain that you don't recognize these ravens?"

"Enough!" Thor roared, and the bird flapped away, hurriedly. Thor pushed his hair from his face with an impatient hand. "Fine, then! If these are truly Father's birds, what in all the Nine are they about?"

The smile faded from Loki's eyes. "I'm not sure."

At that, the second bird lifted its head, eyes gleaming above the metal scrap clutched in its beak. Loki eyed it for a moment, and then he extended a hand.

"If you are indeed the servant of Odin, will you give up your treasure at my command, since I am his son?" he asked.

With a meek chirp, the bird fluttered forward and dropped its prize into his palm.

At once, they gathered around to study it: a link of scale mail, shaped like a leaf. After a moment, Sif stretched out a finger and touched one edge.

"These are dwarven runes."

"Aye," Thor said. "It has the look of dwarven mail, in any case. See how finely it's detailed."

They looked into each other's faces, the same thought etching itself on each brow. Fandral spoke it, finally.

"Dwarves? Why would Thor have been struck down by a dwarven warrior? And how?"

Thor's voice was grim as he added, "And how could any mere dwarf bear Mjolnir away?"

A sharp cry interrupted their council. They turned to find the ravens on the ground before them, but as soon as their gaze touched the birds, they took wing and glided to the northern edge of the clearing, several spans away. They alighted on a low branch, and one let out another imperious caw.

The four stared, nonplussed. Fandral smoothed a hand along his jaw and said, "Charming. That's an invitation?"

Loki turned to them, and quirked a brow. "They do seem to know where they're going. And that is the right direction for Nidavillr, if we propose to seek out some dwarves."

Thor's expression was resigned. "I suppose we must."

Loki was already striding across the clearing toward their mounts. Thor rolled his eyes, and said, "Come, my friends. Surely this is not the strangest quest we've ever undertaken." He stalked away after his brother.

Fandral slanted a sidelong grin at Sif. "It's not?"

She sighed, and arched both brows, and shrugged.

Fandral nodded. "My sentiments exactly." He extended an arm, with an exaggerated lift of the elbow. "May I escort you to your horse? We're off to Nidavillr, at the behest of two birds. As of now, this promises to be a  _very_  long day."

Sif smiled, and laid a hand on his forearm. His grin faded, though, after a few strides, and she asked, curiously, "What is it?"

He shook his head as he gathered her horse's reins and handed them to her with a bow. "I am greatly afeared, my friend. I don't suppose anyone thought to bring along any provisions?"

"I doubt very much."

"Starvation beckons, then." He paused, arrested, and then crossed to his own mount, muttering, "Unless . . . "

He flung open the saddlebag and rummaged through it, until, with a satisfied grunt he drew out from its lowest depths a small, round cake, crumbling around the edges. He offered it toward Sif with a flourish.

"I'm pleased to share, of course."

Sif shook her head, the corners of her mouth bent in a smothered grin. "I think I must decline that offer, kind though it may be." She turned and swung up into the saddle, asking, "Did I not see you pack those very cakes into your bag when the lot of us departed for our last hunt in the southern hills?"

Fandral studied the cake in his hand. "So you did."

She leaned forward, ticking a finger against it. Her nail scratched along its hardened crust. "And that was . . . ten days ago? Twelve, perhaps?"

He sighed. "So it was."

He braced his thumbs along its edges, and, with an effort, snapped it in two. A shower of stale crumbs littered the ground at his feet.

"My condolences," Sif murmured.

"Ah, well. I shall strive to starve with honor." He looked up at her, and she was suddenly aware, again, of his charm, an alchemy of good-natured wit, sound-hearted mind, and finely-made body. "Never let it be said that Fandral of Asgard does not suffer in the service of his prince."

Sif tightened her reins, and said, widening her eyes in mock severity, "I would not."

His eyes laughed at her, full of warmth. "I'm glad to hear it."

He vaulted into the saddle, and whirled his horse about. Thor and Loki had already disappeared into the forest. He tilted his head after them.

"Shall we?"

"After you," she answered, and they plunged out of the clearing in a clatter of hoofbeats, drawn onward by their service to the princes of Asgard and a faint, harsh cry in the distance, the call of a raven.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Thrym sat on a mound, the giants' master,  
Leashes of gold he laid for his dogs._

_Thrym spake:_  
"How fare the gods, how fare the elves?  
Why comest thou alone to the giants' land?"

 _Loki spake:_  
"III fare the gods, ill fare the elves!  
Hast thou hidden Hlorrithi's hammer?"

_-Thrymskvitha, staves 5 and 6_

* * *

 

 

_Nidavillr . . ._

“And here we are. Saddle-weary and famished in the land of the dwarves. What I wouldn’t give for a roast fowl. A crust of bread, even.”

Fandral’s dry comment was hardly audible, as he secured his horse in a copse of mounding briars, but it broke the stillness like an axe through thin ice. He came and crouched beside the others, at the crest of a steep hill overlooking a green vale. Sif spared him a half-smile, and said, brows arched innocently, “Or a stale cake?”

A breath of laughter escaped him. “Especially a stale cake, my lady.”

By her side, Thor chuckled. 

“I’m certain there’s an abundance of rich fare to be had, down there,” Loki said, tilting his head toward the dwelling that lurked like a massive beast down in the valley. “Perhaps you’d care to go down and enquire?”

Fandral didn’t bother to reply with more than an expressive grimace, but Sif felt his body tighten into alertness, beside her, as he studied the scene below. The fortress--‘house’ was far too modest a word--boasted a forbidding hexagonal wall, with an enormous peaked and gabled roof rearing up behind. Low outbuildings flanked it on every side; several of them echoed with the baying of deep-chested hounds. The floor of the valley itself had been shorn of trees, leaving behind a green-carpeted swath of open meadow, punctuated here and there by errant boulders. But these had been altered somehow, subtly carved and shaped so that they resembled nothing so much as brooding giants. Two stone-paved roadways wound through them, meeting at a crossroads before the iron-barred gate.

Sif said, after they’d all given it a thoughtful perusal, “This is not the abode of some common dwarf. One of the Nidavillr Kings? Do we know which one dwells here?”

“And are we certain that our . . . guides have led us here aright?” Thor muttered, slanting a stern gaze upward, where the ravens were perched on a branch overhead. One of them paused in the act of grooming its wing to swivel its head and skewer him with a baleful black eye. The other snapped its beak indignantly.

Loki smiled. “So little faith, brother.”

He turned to Sif, his face hardening into more serious lines. “I’m not certain which of the dwarf lords is shortly to enjoy the pleasure of our company. I’ve never had occasion to call on this particular one . . . “ he glanced at Thor, brows raised, and received a short negative shake of the blond head in reply. “Nor Thor, either, it seems.”

Fandral’s voice rose dubiously. “So we will stroll boldly up to the gate, knock, and wait to see who answers the summons?”

“Why should we not? After all, we have no cause to fear this dwarf,” Thor’s hand fell to his waist; when it met with an empty clasp rather than Mjolnir’s handle, he lifted it and glared for a moment at his empty palm, and then closed it into a fist. His mouth compressed into a grim line. “We come seeking for nothing more than answers.” 

Fandral shook his head. “We come following the tail-feathers of a pair of birds, my friend. Why don’t we require _them_ to go have a peck at the front door, and watch what happens?”

He jerked a thumb up toward the ravens, and then ducked with a muffled oath as they both took flight, skimmed over his head with barely a claw’s-breadth to spare, and glided down into the valley in lazy circles. A derisive caw drifted back behind them.

“Ah.” Loki stood, and adjusted the dagger in his belt. “Nicely done, Fandral. Shall we continue to follow their lead? 

He glanced at Thor thoughtfully, and added, “Not all of us, though, I think.”

“Not all?” Thor hooked both thumbs into his belt and lifted his chin. “Which of us do you propose? And why do I feel as if I’m not going to like your answer?”

Loki’s brows lifted. “I cannot imagine?” But then he leaned forward, the glimmer of humor fading from his eyes. “But, no, Thor, think. This is a dwarf, and, more, it is a dwarf lord. So he will be steeped to the roots of his luxurious beard in protocol and custom. If _you_ were to enter his hall, he would be on the defensive at once, because you would so obviously outrank him, never mind any guilty conscience he may be suffering in the matter of the Hammer.”

Thor grunted. “Whereas?”

“Whereas . . . if Sif and I were to approach him . . . “

Sif restrained an impulse to sigh heavily. “Ah, yes. Of course. A woman, whom he would, in the usual manner of his kind, view as his inferior.”

Loki bowed. “His mistake, assuredly, but yes. A woman, warrior and Lady though she may be, and myself, a second son. “ He spread his hand over his own chest, his mouth tightening slightly on the last two words.

Thor was silent, for a long moment, and then said, “Go, then. Fandral and I will keep watch from up here.”

 

* * *

Only by dint of sheer will did Sif keep her fingers from tightening upon the shaft of her spear as she and Loki followed a richly-robed servant into a vaulted passage through the huge wall. The gate closed behind them with a sullen thud, and she straightened her shoulders, deliberately, to brush off a creeping sense of entrapment. Beside her, Loki walked with an easy stride, one finger tapping against the hilt of his dagger, his face abstracted, deep in thought. 

She caught the glint of his eye as he glanced over at her, and he murmured, his lips hardly moving, “We’ll be obliged to force the issue.”

She waited, but he said nothing more. She felt her jaw tighten, and drew in a shallow breath, counted--one stride, two, three--and then let it out again. Drifting closer to his side, her eye fixed on the back of the servant ahead, she said, low, “That would be a far easier task if I knew what paths you’re planning to pursue.”

A small smile stretched his lips, and then he tipped her a mocking wink. “What makes you suppose I have any plan at all?”

“You always have a plan.” She could hear her own voice, clipping off the ends of each word, and, with an effort, she swallowed the tension climbing up her throat. “I will be better able to back you if I know its dimensions.”

“You will back me admirably,” Loki said, slowing his steps as the servant halted before a pair of heavy, cross-timbered doors, “by being your own inestimable self.”

Sif’s jaw tightened. She was well aware that Loki’s penchant for winding up the ragged threads of chaos had pulled victory out of defeat on any number of occasions, but it never ceased to set her teeth on edge.

“That’s not at all helpful,” she hissed.

Loki flashed her a maddeningly cheerful grin, and then composed his face into thoughtful dignity as the servant pushed open the doors, and intoned, “My Lord Thrym, may I present Loki, prince of Asgard.”

Loki sauntered forward, but Sif remained in the door, her cool gaze burrowing into the back of the servant’s head until, with a twitching, sidelong glance, he added, “Also, Lady Sif of Asgard.”

She regained Loki’s side in three paces, and ignored the amused glint in his eyes.

The hall they had entered was enormous; Sif would hardly have expected less, given the outer dimensions of this place. But she was unprepared for its oppressiveness: broad pillars of hewn stone supporting a roof so far overhead that it was lost in darkness; walls looming in shadow, alternating panels of polished rock and grainy slabs of wood from trees unimaginably huge. Pools of light fell onto the stone-tiled floor from lanterns suspended here and there, each one larger than a tall man; Sif tipped her head back to study one as they passed beneath; it was crafted of pale, translucent rock and the glow was spilling from the rock itself rather than any interior lamp. She caught an impression of the massive chain that was holding it aloft, and disciplined herself not to step a little more quickly from underneath such a ponderous weight.

Beside her, Loki murmured, as his gaze measured the room, “How . . . snug.”

He angled to one side then, to skirt a circular coping that sprawled across the center of the hall’s floor, the lip of a dark well. Passing on its other edge, Sif peered down its throat, for a moment; absolute darkness flowed up from below, and it exhaled the chill breath of cold, buried rock and great depth. Sharply incised runes along the coping’s rim read, in the dwarven speech, _The Mouth of the Earth is Never Filled_.

Loki’s eyes were tracing the inscription, as well, a sardonic gleam flickering in their depths.  


“Inspiring, isn’t it?” he said.“Dwarves are so very solemn about rock and earth and . . . more rock.”

At the hall’s far end, a flight of broad stairs ascended to a dais, on which was set, in its own pool of light, a chair of impressive height and girth, and on this chair, a dwarf. He was watching them come, with eyes glittering above his gray-streaked beard. One hand stroked the heavy-jowled head of a hound, pale dappled brown, that lounged at his feet and regarded them with dark, unfriendly eyes. When they reached the base of the steps, the dwarf stood, his fingers still caressing the hound’s ears, and bowed.

“Welcome, Prince. My house is honored.” His eyes swept over Sif, pausing thoughtfully on her spear, and he added, “And you, my Lady.”

Sif granted him a curt nod. Loki said, smoothly, “We’ve traveled far this day, Lord . . . Thrym, was it?”

The dwarf fingered the thick sash that bound his tunic at the waist. His eyes narrowed, but his voice remained even as he answered, “Aye. I am Thrym, King in Nidavillr, as all are aware.”

“Nidavillr has so many kings, you know,” Loki swiveled toward Sif, arching a brow, and she lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug. “We weren’t certain.”

He looked back, suddenly, chin lifted. “You know who _we_ are, of course?”

Sif pressed her lips together to subdue a smile, amused despite herself. Oh, yes, Loki was very skilled at these sorts of games. Already this dwarf was back on his heels, scrambling to marshal his defenses. The hand upon the hound’s head had stilled.

“I know the name of Loki,” Thrym said. He lowered himself back into his seat and steepled his fingers against his lower lip. “Though I’m surprised to find you at my door so unexpectedly. With so little ceremony.”

Loki waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, well, you’ll find we’re not ones for ceremony. Or, at least, I can dispense with it, myself. I won’t presume to speak for Lady Sif.” He pressed his fingertips together, a subtle taunt, mimicking the dwarf’s own posture. “Although of course I know that dwarves are fond of it. Famed for it, in fact.” His voice grew fractionally colder. “That, and your hospitality. To travelers. Especially, for example, travelers such as this lady and I, who’ve had such a fatiguing, and parched, ride today.” He tilted his head expectantly.

The dwarf eyed him, and then indicated a little murmuring fall of water, at the rear of the dais in a shadowed alcove, gestured toward it with a crook of a finger that was meant to be careless and negligent, and yet there was tension in the shoulders and a tightness in the jaw beneath the luxuriant beard. Sif saw it, and as her eyes shifted to Loki’s face, she knew that he was well aware; the corner of one lip was curled into a gentle smile.

He inclined his head. “I’m charmed by the . . . zeal of your welcome.” The dwarf was scowling, but he smoothed his face with a palpable effort and bowed in return. Loki mounted the steps two at a time, and, as he passed the throne-like chair, he helped himself to a goblet that was standing there, on the arm.The hound at Thrym’s feet gathered its haunches beneath its body like a tightly coiled spring, pulling its lips back in a noiseless snarl, but Loki gave its head a friendly pat with one hand, and with the other he held the cup up to the light, his mouth quirking wryly as he glanced at Sif over its rim, one finger sliding along its side to draw her attention. A lovely thing, that cup: simple, without ornament. One would think it almost plain, until one realized that it had been carved whole out of a single crystal, and was undoubtedly, in itself, worth more than several of the more humble kingdoms.

So. Consumption and luxury disguised as humility. Sif smiled to herself. They were learning, oh so much, about the character of this dwarven lord.

The dwarf had surged to his feet, one hand raised in protest at Loki’s acquisition, the other hand gripping the hound’s jeweled collar. Sif shifted her weight, and when the movement drew his gaze, she lifted a brow and allowed a quiet warning to show in her eyes. Slowly his hand dropped to his side; after a stretched moment, he sat and stroked the hound’s head, staring moodily at Loki.

Taking his time with each movement, Loki polished the goblet’s rim with the hem of the woven tapestry framing the alcove, and then dipped it under the fall. As if filled to the brim, he said, just loudly enough to be heard over the water’s quiet song, “Tell me a thing, then, Thrym, since the spirit of friendly hospitality shines so brightly here in your hall . . . “

He turned, and paused to sip thoughtfully from the cup. Thrym’s eyes were fastened on it, and, when he finally dragged his gaze upward to meet Loki’s amused smirk, his brows lowered like a thundercloud over a valley.

“Tell you what thing?” he growled. “I have little that you might wish to hear, son of Odin.”

“Ah, do not underestimate yourself. I think you’ll find us fascinated by your conversation. Always supposing, of course, that we can hit upon a fruitful topic of discussion.”

The dwarf spread his hands, in a show of puzzlement.

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“Nothing?” Loki shook his head, slowly; the mocking glint strengthened in his eyes. “Such a shame. Your ignorance shatters me, Thyrm, as if your words were actual blows from a hammer. . . “ 

And on that last word, all of the amusement dropped away from Loki’s face and voice like a shed cloak.

Although he must have known it was coming, must have been bracing himself against it, Thyrm still shuddered away from the word; his shoulders jerked back and his chin lifted defiantly. His eyes slid from Loki’s face to Sif’s, and back again.

Loki smiled.

“Ah, yes,” he said, stepping forward smoothly, rolling the stem of the goblet back and forth between thumb and fingertips. “Hammers, now. There’s a fine subject for our talk. What think you of hammers, Thrym?”

For a moment, it seemed the dwarf might still try the bluff, might lift his sword and still attempt to fence words with Loki. Sif found herself hoping that he would not, that he would bring the battle out into the open where it belonged, where she would be able to fight on level ground as opposed to the shifting sands where Loki was dancing.

The silence flowered into a most uncomfortable bloom, and then Thrym’s eyes dropped. Sif caught a tiny, darting gleam from Loki’s eyes, full of satisfied glee, and accompanied by the barest nod. She said, each word sharply chiseled, “You’ve taken Mjolnir, somehow.”

The dwarf muttered, “So we have.”

“So you have,” Loki said, and he leaned forward, clasping both hands behind his back, the goblet dangling from two fingers. His face was mere inches from the dwarf’s as he added, “And where have you hidden it?” 

 “Where you will never find it, Prince, no matter what tricks you attempt.”

Loki straightened and clapped a hand to his chest, fingers spread. “I? Tricks?”

“It is deep, deep underground, in the maze of the tunnels which the dwarves alone know, and where the dwarves alone may travel.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed. He studied the dwarf’s face, silently.

“You will never find it,” Thrym repeated. “Never.”

Loki leveled a glance at Sif, and, at the slight lift of her brow, he raised one of his own in return, and, slowly, nodded. “We believe you. So, where does that leave us?”

Sif hefted her spear, closing both hands about the shaft. When the dwarf’s eyes slid to her, she said, “Do you wish open war with the Allfather? For that is surely the consequence of such an action.”

But the dwarf’s face lit suddenly and unexpectedly with a smirk.

“Is it? Does the Allfather know that Mjolnir is taken?” He leaned forward in his chair, and sneered, “Was the Prince your brother eager to share the circumstances of its disappearance?”

Loki’s face remained indifferent, but Sif saw the sudden sharpening of his gaze, the deep flash of the same anger that flared now in her own belly. So. This little thief in his ridiculous lair was not so stupid as he’d first appeared.

Idly, Loki flicked the fingertips of one hand against the palm of the other, and smiled, slightly. “No. He was not.”

“He’d like to retrieve the Hammer without the Allfather ever knowing, would he not?”

“And now I suspect that your next leading question will be something to the effect of . . .” and he subtly changed his voice and posture into a potent mockery of Thrym’s. “‘And you’d like to know how to make that happen, wouldn’t you, prince of Asgard?’ “

Thrym glared at him.

“And my answer to that would be, ‘Why, yes, Thrym, I would. How can we persuade you to return Mjolnir to us with a minimum of fuss?’”

“You can bestow on me a token of your good faith.”

“Ah. Yes.” Loki turned away and descended the steps, the smile stretching far enough to reveal a gleam of teeth, white in the chamber’s dim light. “Good faith, is it? And how . . . costly might this good faith be, if I may be so crude as to enquire the particulars?”

“Three hundredweight of gold.”

Sif swallowed an outraged gasp. A snort of laughter shook Loki’s shoulders as he turned back to Thrym’s chair.

“Oh, really? Is that all? and why not ask for the Hlidskjalf itself, as well?”

“Surely the princes of Asgard can discreetly lay their hands on a bit of gold?”

Sif took a step forward, chin taut. “I congratulate you on the generosity of your conception of ‘a bit’, dwarf.”

Thrym shrugged. “Something more portable, then. I am a reasonable man, of simple tastes.”

“Of course you are.” Loki lifted the goblet in his hand, and allowed the lantern light to shine through it, fracturing into a thousand shards by the crystal’s intricate inner structure. “Clearly.”

The dwarf’s eyes flashed.

Loki studied him, for a moment more, and then said, softly, “So. When you say ‘portable’ , what exactly do you have in mind?”

 

* * *

 

“ _Buri’s Eye??_ ”

Thor rose to his feet, thunder rumbling beneath the incredulous words. 

“This Hel-bedamned, stunted, thieving dwarf dares so much?" 

Loki smiled, humorlessly. “Oh, yes. He dares. He will happily return Mjolnir to your fist, in return for this one small favor.”

Fandral snorted. “Small favor, is it? Only one of Asgard’s greatest treasures." 

“It’s impossible,” Thor shook his head. “Even if we were inclined to submit to this . . . insult, how does he suppose that we could comply? Shall we stroll unconcerned into the Treasure Vault and pry the gem from its resting place, and then hope no one notices? Does he take us for fools? He is the fool in this matter!” 

Sif tapped a finger against her spear. “I think not.” She glanced at Loki, and, when he met her eye and lifted his chin, a slight smile tilting the corner of his mouth, she reached into the belt around her waist, and fished something from beneath it. “He gave us this.”

Fandral drew near, eyes intent. Thor leaned forward a spare inch or two, and watched as she opened her fingers and revealed a deep-hued stone, carved in the shape of an inhuman eye, glowing coldly against the skin of her palm.

Thor frowned. He reached out and plucked it from her hand, and held it up to the light of the setting sun. 

“False? A sort of decoy?” he said.

“Glass. Infused somehow to mimic the glow of the genuine stone.” Loki shrugged. “You know how it is with dwarves. Their skill with anything that may be plucked, mined, or smelted from the bowels of the world is unsurpassed.”

“And he had this already prepared.” He exchanged a thoughtful glance with his brother.“As if he knew we would come.”

Loki nodded. “The leaf of mail we discovered was no accident.”

Fandral shook his head. “And shall we tamely do his bidding? Switch the real for the false and bring it here again?”

“Not ‘we’”, Sif said grimly. “Me.”

Thor and Fandral both rounded on her. She lifted a hand to forestall their protests.

“This is the dwarf’s doing. He demands that I alone return with Buri’s Eye.” She widened her eyes in mock severity. “Apparently he’d decided he’d had quite enough of Loki’s conversation.” 

Both of the other men’s heads swiveled in unison to glare at Loki, who lifted both hands in a shrug of exaggerated innocence. 

“Well this is a _fine_ snipe’s den we’ve wandered into.” Fandral said. “And to think, only this morning my largest problem was trying to recall where I left my cloak last night.”

Thor clenched a fist over the Hammer’s empty clasp. “We must retrieve Mjolnir some other way.Sif cannot come back here alone with the Eye! We cannot submit to this dwarf’s ridiculous demands!”

“I think we should do as he asks,” Loki said. 

“Oh, yes?”

“Except that she should not go alone.”

 “Exactly!”

“We should accompany her.”

Thor’s brow lowered thunderously. “And when we, the lot of us, arrive at his castle gates, surely he’ll unbar the door and feast us with his finest roast mutton, and tamely return the Hammer!”

Loki grinned. “He may.”

Sif cocked a brow at him. “Or, on the other hand, he may loose his hounds upon us.”

“I think not.” Loki pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “No. No, I think we can avoid that.”

“He’s not a complete fool, Loki,” Fandral said, crossing his arms. “He’ll attack the moment he sees any of our faces.”

“You’re right.”

“And I for one--,” As Loki’s words registered, Fandral coughed, thumped a fist against his chest. “--am right. Yes. Yes, often I am. Right. About things.”

Sif allowed her gaze to slide sideways and a gleam of amusement to slip under her eyelids. Fandral cleared his throat, and raised both brows at her. “Well, I am. Often.”

Thor rumbled, “Out with it, Loki. It’s obvious to us all that you’ve conceived some clever notion to deal with all of this.” 

“Sif is a warrior of Asgard, a Lady of high station. And the dwarves set great store in protocol. They will think nothing of it if, when she returns, she is attended.”

“Attended? By whom?”

A hazy cloud of golden light obscured Loki’s form, and, when it cleared, there stood in his place a slim, graceful maid attired in a gauzy green gown. She opened her lips and said, in Loki’s voice, “Why, by her handmaidens, of course.”

Fandral rolled his eyes skyward, and Thor let out a heartfelt groan as Loki added, “Three of them, naturally.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, in the Thrymskvitha, Thrym was not a dwarf but rather the King of the Frost Giants, and Loki and Thor were obliged to travel to Jotunheim in order to retrieve the Hammer. But, in the MCU, Jotunheim is a realm fraught with peril, both culturally and politically, and taking this story there would have involved a much more somber and complex plot. So I've chosen to make the dwarves the villains of this piece, instead, and leave the jotnar to themselves, for now.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

 

**_Then Loki spake, the son of Laufey:  
"Be silent, Thor, and speak not thus;_ **

**_Else will the giants in Asgard dwell  
If thy hammer is brought not home to thee."_ **

_Thrymskvitha, stave 17_

* * *

 

_In a certain Treasure Vault deep within the House of Odin. Four voices . . ._

“Truly, my friends, of all the foolhardy tasks that we have ever undertaken, in all of the Tree’s nine realms, this must undoubtedly carry away the prize. Who agrees with me?”

“I, for one.”

“Two of us, then. Anyone else? Loki? Thor?”

“Enough! We may be fools, Fandral, curse it all, but what choice do we have? Bor’s Bones! It’s dark as Nidhoggr’s breath in here. Loki, light the torch.”

“I could suggest a choice. We could go to the Allfather at once, and lay this whole tale out before him.”

“Thank you, Sif, but I’d prefer not. Come, we must free the gem from the Helm.”

“Thor would prefer negotiation with Thrym to explanations before Father.”

“What of it? Would you not feel the same, any of you? Curse it, the damnable thing refuses to budge. I require something sharper. . . Fandral! Give me your rapier.”

“Have a care, brother. Don’t scratch it.”

“It’s survived for thousands of years unscathed. I don’t think a few moments of prying with a sword’s tip will cause it any harm.”

“Nevertheless . . . “

“It’s stuck fast . . . No, I’ve got it!”

“Don’t drop it!”

“I wasn’t intending to! Here, Fandral, your sword . . . Sif, take the Eye.”

“If I must.”

“Where’s the false one? Do you have it still? Sif?”

“Yes, here it is. . . . Thor, isn’t it strange that Thrym was able to create this impostor? How could he have copied the Eye so exactly?”

“ . . . You’re right. That is strange. And, see here . . . it fits perfectly back into the Helm.”

“So it does, brother. What an interesting conversation we will have with that dwarf when next we meet.”

“Yes, we will, Loki. All of us.”

“Naturally.”

“Because we’ll all be there when Sif confronts him.”

“At her very heels.”

“Disguised as her handmaidens.”

“Yes, Thor. As much as it pains you. Do you want to retrieve the Hammer, or no?”

“Of course I do!”

“Well, then.”

“I only wish that I could devise a less ridiculous way to do it!”

* * *

_And later, along the road to Nidavillr . . ._  

“I don’t think it will escape you.”

Sif looked up, startled; her thoughts had wandered far afield while her eyes idly followed the horses as they grazed. Their haunches, streaked with drying sweat, bore mute witness to leagues of hard riding; she suspected that they were grateful for respite from the road’s endless beckoning. Tall ranks of trees marched along one side of the grassy hollow where they’d halted, and, on the other, a rocky slope climbed steeply to the foot of a cliff, whose summit reared into a sky lit gold by the sun’s descent toward evening. The road swung into a wide curve along the hollow’s brim, and then disappeared again into the trees; on a sapling nearby, the two ravens, who’d accompanied the four of them all the way to Asgard and back here again, were perched in a quiet huddle of glossy black feathers, their weight bending the young tree’s trunk. Below, in the bowl of the hollow, Loki had built a tiny, smokeless fire, and Thor was hunched over it, staring moodily into the flame. She noticed that his hand moved restlessly, tapping against Mjolnir’s empty clasp.

Fandral had been crouched beside her, rummaging through his saddle bag. As she looked over at him, he straightened and unclasped the stopper on a stout, leather-bound flask. One brow quirked as he awaited her response.

“What will not escape me?” she asked.

He gestured with one finger toward her waist, and she glanced down to find her fingers resting protectively over the small pouch that hung there.

“Ah.” Her lips tipped into a wry smile. “Well, this is, as you said, one of Asgard’s chiefest treasures.” She stroked the pouch with her fingertips, tracing the oval shape within it. “And, in any case, I would not care to collapse the roof on Loki’s mad plan by losing its keystone.”

He laughed, and tipped the flask up for a long swallow. “Small chance of that. Our prince could not ask for a more reliable caretaker.”

“Or a more reluctant one.” She sighed and rolled her eyes, and moved to look away, but his gaze held her, and she wondered at the warmth in it; camaraderie and friendship, yes, but something more, as well? Or was she seeing only what she, perhaps, would like to see? She shrugged, and said, “I suspect that’s why Thrym insisted that it be I alone who returned with the cursed thing. He found Loki too eager for battle.”

“The more fool he, if he truly views you as the less dangerous option.” He lifted the flask in silent invitation.

She reached out to take it, and then paused, frowning in mock consternation. “No cakes?”

“Not this time.”

She grinned, and took a sip. As she handed it back, she said, “He did seem uncertain about my spear.”

“Thyrm? As well he should.” He stoppered the flask and tossed it back into the open mouth of the saddlebag. “Since in your grasp it’s a most formidable weapon.”

She tilted her chin, a tiny smile curving the corner of her mouth. “ _Most_ formidable? More so than, say, a sword?”

He gave an exaggerated grimace, running one hand along the back of his neck. “Perhaps?”

“Oh, really?” A brow rose. “In that case, my friend, perhaps you’d like some lessons? In the art of close combat with a spear?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully, nodding, eyes gleaming with amusement and a deeper, subtle heat. “I might, if you’re making such an offer.”

“I think . . . not. On further consideration, I’ve decided that it’s not advisable, after all.” Her smile widened.

“Oh?”

“Your skill with the sword has already won you the admiration of many a maiden. If you were to add to that a prowess with the spear . . . ,” she paused, and frowned with mock solicitude. “No heart in Asgard would remain unconquered.”

But to her surprise, he didn’t laugh as her jest thrust home. 

“I would not be so ungallant as to disagree with a lady,” he said, and he looked away. “And I have enjoyed the company of many a pretty maid, true enough, but . . . I believe there is one heart in Asgard that I have not touched, for all that I am Fandral the Dashing.”

On the last word, his gaze slid back to hers, a potent _en garde._ His lips were bent into an ironic smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

She studied him, in that instant, which for all its fleeting speed seemed to stretch and enfold a multitude of similar ones. She allowed her eyes to rove his face as she sought the meaning behind his words, and her mind to notice the contrast between the strong planes of his jaw and the chiseled curve of that lip. But, as she did, her eye was caught by a stealthy movement in the trees behind him, and the malevolent wink of light on metal or polished stone. Her shoulders snapped upright, her lips parted in a warning shout, and then she threw herself forward against him. They crashed to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs; something hummed viciously as it pierced the air over their heads, and, from their nearby perch, the ravens hurled themselves skyward, squawking in alarm.

Fandral’s voice, muffled beneath her, drawled, “This is certainly an unexpected pleasure.”

“Quiet!” she hissed, and rolled off him into a crouch. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Thor had leapt to his feet, down by the fire, and, beside him, Loki stood with a dagger in each hand.

She scanned the trees, the slope, the nearby ground. Fandral was on his feet, drawing his sword, when her eyes found an alien shape among the tufts of grass, whereit had come to a rest after failing to find its mark in Fandral’s back.

She seized his arm, and pulled him about, pointing. “Trolls. It’s a troll dagger.” 

Loki came running forward and scooped up the weapon, his face cold, eyes skimming the shadows under the trees as he ran a thumb along the edge of the finely-hewn stone. His gaze met Sif’s, full of portent, and he was opening his mouth to speak when a guttural war cry erupted all around them, and an avalanche of huge, ponderous bodies rumbled out of the forest.

At once, Sif squared herself to meet them, body poised and taut even as her mind raced. 

_How many? Too many!_

But, without a pause, the trolls surged past, heedless of Fandral and herself, sweeping around Loki, thundering toward the bottom of the hollow where Thor stood alone. They converged upon him in a maelstrom of spear and bow. For a bare instant, Thor waited, hands curling into fists, eyes gauging the oncoming threat, the noose they were attempting to draw around him. Then, with a roar, he spun and catapulted himself through a gap in their circle, twisting to avoid a wild thrust from a spear. He pounded forward in the only direction open to him, up the slope toward the base of the cliff, with an angry, milling knot of trolls in his wake. 

Loki was already halfway up the slope, running at an angle toward his brother, slipping through the jumbled rocks like a wildcat on the hunt. Sif caught a startled, grim glance from Fandral, and then he shoved his sword into its scabbard and plunged forward, mirroring Loki’s movements. Sif hefted her spear and followed; the muscles at the back of her neck tightened mercilessly against the evil prospect of a sharp stone dagger embedded between her shoulder-blades. 

They scrambled up the slope, bodies low and bent, toward Thor, who had pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge near the cliff’s foot. In another moment they had vaulted up onto the rocky shelf to join him, whirling to face the oncoming trolls. From overhead, the two ravens came swooping out of the sky, and secreted themselves with a flurry of wings into a sheltered niche in the cliff’s stone face.

“Cowards!” Thor growled at them; Loki chuckled and gave them a salute, fist to chest with one hand even as a dark-bladed dagger appeared in the other. There was a stifled chirp in response, and then the trolls were upon them.

 ‘We’ve come in peace, you rock-brained cretins.” 

Loki ducked swiftly beneath the swing of a troll’s oddly-jointed arm. He spun, and his booted foot scythed one of the creature’s legs out from under it; it teetered, arms windmilling, on the other. As the snarl on its lips morphed into a chagrined howl, Loki straightened, pressed two fingers against its chest, favored it with a friendly wink, and pushed. With a scream of rage it fell backward down the steep slope it had just laboriously ascended, bouncing with a stony thud off several large boulders as it went.

“ _Be_ at peace, will you?” Loki called after it.

A gasp of laughter slipped through Sif’s clenched teeth. She had scooped up a melon-sized rock, and, as she hurled it against a troll’s skull, she said, “They don’t seem willing to accommodate you.”

Thor, fighting back to back with Fandral, sent two more of the creatures tumbling away with a mighty blow of his fist. He looked up to meet Loki’s raised eyebrow. 

“Can they not see that we are merely harmless travelers?”

Fandral grunted. Another troll had pulled itself onto the cliffside ledge and hurtled toward him with a red-eyed roar. As he plunged his rapier’s thin blade into the unarmored gap between its low-slung jaw and heavily armored collarbone, and then kicked the body off the sword and back down the slope, he said, over his shoulder, “I can’t imagine why not.”

Sif reached down for more ammunition; she came up with a stone hardly bigger than an egg, cupped in the palm of her hand. Beside her, Loki arched a brow at it. 

“Terrifying.”

She rolled her eyes at him, and cocked back her arm to let it fly regardless, when her gaze snagged on an enormous boulder perched on the furthest edge of an outcropping overhead. She rifled the small missile directly into the eye socket of an advancing troll, and, as it dropped its spear and fell howling to its knees, clutching at its face, she jerked a thumb upward. Fandral caught the gesture and turned to followed it; he grinned and swept her a tiny bow that turned into a graceful sidestep as he bent and twisted to avoid a stone dagger thrown from below. “That’s all yours, my lady.”

Loki moved to cover her back as she flung herself upward, pulling with one hand and drawing her spear out of its scabbard on her back with the other, her eye on the precariously balanced stone. Fandral lifted his blade and sighted along the edge, shaking his head at the nicks and gouges inflicted by troll hide on the fine steel. He glanced over at Thor and said, “I believe I’ve indulged in some harmless travel, a time or two over the course of my life. This isn’t it.”

Thor growled, “They have no cause to attack us! And they’ll regret it soon enough.”

“I’m sure they will," Loki murmured. "Because this is all going so well.” 

Above their heads, Sif said, mildly, as she forced the head of her spear beneath the overhanging boulder, “Oh yes. We’ve lured them into trapping us here, where we’ve no way to escape. Very clever of us.” She paused, and raised a brow, and added, “Duck.”

Fandral’s eyes widened, and Loki wheeled backward; she wedged the spearhead another finger-width further under the stone with a final clench of her jaw, and then threw all her weight upon the metal shaft. With a groaning crack, the stone fell away, crashing like the footfalls of a giant down the hillside, and taking a dozen trolls with it.

Thor strode to the ledge’s rim. “They’re gathering their wounded. They’ll retreat now.”

“For the moment.” Sif leaped down from her perch. 

“And not very far.” Thor pointed, as the hulking shapes below began to regather in the shadows under the trees at the far side of the hollow. Several of them were pulling the bodies of their fallen fellows, obeying the roughly shouted commands of a huge troll covered with a mottled pattern that could only be battle-scarring. It turned, as if suddenly aware of Thor’s gaze, and glared at him. Then it lifted one fist and pumped it upward, three times, sharply. Thor coughed and turned his head to meet Loki’s amused gaze, as his brother came to stand beside him.

“Really,” Loki shook his head. “I think I’d prefer to decline that invitation . . .”

“They’re angry,” Sif said. “They won’t stop until they or we are dead.”

But as she said it, her eye lingered on Thor, and her fingers itched to pull him back from his exposed position; an image played across her mind’s eye: the circle of trolls closing in on Thor, ignoring herself and Loki and Fandral to do so.

Loki was bending a thoughtful eye upon his brother, as well. “Or until _someone_ is dead,” he said.  

Any answer Sif might have offered was lost in an explosion of sound: huge rocks shattering on the ledge behind them, peppering them with razor-edged fragments. As one, they whirled and dived for the meager shelter of the cliff face.

“What’s up there?” Fandral asked, craning his neck to look upward past the beetling cliff. A smaller rock, cleft in two by an impact further up, struck his armored shoulder with a low clang. Spitting out an oath, he flattened himself against the rock and slid his eyes sideways. “Anyone?”

Loki eased along the wall toward the far end of the ledge, his face tilted upward, eyes narrow. He lowered his gaze to catch Thor’s eye, and his brother dodged forward to slide into place beside him, pausing for only a moment to swing his fist like a club. A stone thumped off the vambrace on his forearm and went whistling out into the void in front of them.

The ledge was bounded at its furthest end by a seam in the cliff, a dark vertical gully etched deeply into the rock, the chute of a long-dead waterfall, now dry and choked with dead brush and fallen boulders. It provided a clear sightline to the top of the cliff. Loki was peering upward, carefully, his body pressed against the stone. Thor followed his gaze, and then muttered, “Surtur’s balls. . . “ and motioned Sif and Fandral forward.

“More of them, up above,” he said, voice low. “At least four.”

“They must have circled around and climbed up, blast them.” Fandral grimaced as another rock smashed into the ledge before them, showering them with glassy splinters. “This is becoming a bit grim.”

Sif eyed him. “A bit? We’re as vulnerable as nesting pigeons up here! We must find a way off before this becomes a great deal worse than merely grim.”

“We could scale the cliff.” Thor gazed upward, uneasily.

Sif shook her head. “They would pick us off, one by one.” She pointed downslope, where they could all see the trolls moving forward again, and their leader’s face turned up, watching them hungrily.

“Well,” Loki said, “let’s summarize, shall we? We have a war band of trolls below, slavering for our blood. We’ve got several more up above, lobbing stones at our heads, and we are enjoying an enforced holiday on a ledge several paces wide.”

Thor grinned, a sudden flash of steely humor. “All true.”

“And our assets?” Loki pointed at Fandral. “One sword, several daggers, and assorted quips.”

Fandral’s shoulders pulled back, as he frowned in mock offense. “Quips?”

Loki ignored him, turning a finger toward Sif. “One spear, several more daggers, and. . .”

She bared all her teeth at him. “And what?”

“And unmatched skill in battle, naturally.”

He gestured to Thor, “Two large fists, with optional bellowing,” He lifted a hand to his own chest, “As for myself. . .”

“An unending fount of talk, apparently,” Thor said.

Loki grinned. “You wound me, brother.

“So, an even match, then.” Fandral smoothed a hand along his chin. “Poor doomed trolls. I pity them.”

Sif had leaned further to the side, and was peering down the long chute in the rock. 

“It appears the pitiful doomed trolls are attempting to stack the odds,” she said.

Below, three of the creatures were packing armfuls of brush into the bottom of the chute: broken branches, pine boughs thick with green needles. And then, from further downslope, they all heard the lead troll’s voice rasp, “Bring a torch. From the fire.”

She looked up to meet three pairs of eyes narrowing with varying degrees of consternation. 

Fandral’s mouth quirked. “Smoking us out? That’s so . . . dull.” His voice was pained.

Sif snorted. “Trolls aren’t known for their creativity.” 

A crackle of fire, from below. Small puffs of heavy white smoke appeared, drawn up the dry waterfall’s chute like wisps through the throat of a finely-masoned chimney. They crowded upward, malevolent ghosts overflowing into the open space created by the ledge’s intersection with the chute. Within moments air was shrouded in a choking haze.

The four pressed back along the ledge, away from the thicker smoke, careful to remain tucked beneath the meager shelter of the overhanging cliff face. The occasional smack of a rock on the ledge’s surface was reminder enough of the enemies that still waited, above. The troll’s leader, in the hollow below, bellowed up at them, gleeful menace oiling its rasping voice.

“Breathe deep, Asgardians!”

Thor snorted, and hefted a fist in return. Sif bent and drew a dagger from her boot. Fandral’s hand went to the hilt of the sword and drew it out a few inches, and then, after a look down at the assembled rank of trolls that awaited them, sheathed it again.

Loki shook his head. “While you all consider the alternatives, perhaps it’s time I took this in hand?” he suggested.

Thor leaned closer. “And how do you propose to do that? Fly?” He swept one hand up toward the raven’s niche in the rock. “That’s an option for our erstwhile guides alone, I’m believe.”

A low croak emerged from their hiding place, and then, with a hop and a single flap of a wing, one of the birds emerged and glided off into the smoky air, followed closely by the other. In a banking curve, they wheeled over the length of the ledge and then down the slope, a few spans above the trolls’ heads.

Loki watched them, a frown etching itself between his brows. He took a half step forward, and, when Sif reached out to caution him, shook his head, cocking it to one side as he absorbed the sudden silence below. After a moment, Sif leaned forward, too, just enough to scan the entire hollow.

The trolls’ muttering growls had changed in tone; some were gesturing upward as the ravens drifted in slow circles, limning the rocky slope at the cliff’s foot where the trolls had gathered. Several were cringing backward, as if to escape the birds’ black-eyed gaze, and they began to mutter two harsh syllables, over and over.

“What are they saying?” Sif asked. She looked over at Loki’s face and intercepted equally puzzled glances from Thor and Fandral, on Loki’s other side.

“Of course . . . ,” Loki murmured. A breath of amusement sussed through his teeth. “Ka’khet.”

A sideways grimace from Fandral. “Excuse me?”

Loki was tapping a fist against his chin, eyes intent. “Ka’khet,” he repeated, absently.

Thor’s eyes narrowed at Sif, a silent question. She blew out a breath and spread her hands, and shifted her gaze to Fandral, who shrugged.

Loki rocked back on one heel, shaking his head. “Can it be that it was I alone who paid our lessons any mind, when we were children?”

Thor lifted his chin. “Possibly, yes. Out with it, Loki! What is this?”

“Not ‘what’. Who. Ka’khet. A battle goddess much feared by our friends down there.” 

A memory glimmered. Sif said, slowly, “And who is always accompanied by. . . “

“Two ravens. Yes.”

He gestured out toward the birds, just as, with wings dipping in unison, they soared off over the treetops. They were lost almost immediately in the gray haze, and the trolls’ harsh muttering boiled up out of the clearing once more.

“Ah,” said Fandral. “Not unlike the two ravens who have just abandoned us to our fate?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Loki said. “The trolls are on edge now. Look at them. Imagine how they might react if they were presented with a vision of Ka’khet herself.”

Thor looked over at him. “A vision? You could create it?”

“I could, with pleasure, but I would require a form to work upon, so that it can move fluidly.” He tilted his head, leveling a measuring gaze on his brother, a glint of humor lighting his eyes. “And Ka’khet is large and menacing . . . “

“What? Are you suggesting . . . “

“And possesses just such a roar. My compliments, brother.”

“Loki, I have no wish to impersonate a troll battle-goddess!”

There was a pause, and then Loki’s jaw hardened. “Surely you realize,” he said, “that they will be expecting nothing less from you than a thundering bellow and a frontal assault.”

Thor crossed his arms over his chest. “So they should, since that is what they are about to receive.”

“Predictability is not a virtue, brother.” Loki’s voice had chilled.

He turned toward Fandral, who backed away hastily, both hands raised, and then was obliged to dodge a stone lobbed down from above. “Oh, no. No, I am here today strictly in pursuit of a dashing exploit, and _that_ is most definitely not it.”

Loki’s eyes narrowed, and, without moving his head, his gaze shifted to Sif. “You, my lady, with your well-known esteem for practical measures: I’m certain that you can see the advantages of this plan . . . “

“I’d sooner don a veil and dance the _kyssa maer_.” 

Sif felt Fandral’s gaze slide sideways to rest, for a single, fascinated moment, on her face. He cleared his throat.

“Truly?” he asked.

“No,” she said flatly.

“As arresting a prospect as that may be,” Loki said, “I doubt very much it would weave its magic satisfactorily on rock trolls! But a vision of Ka’khet will put them all to heel! The smoke grows thick, it will add to the illusion . . . " 

Thor was glaring back down the slope. “It will also obscure our movements, when we attack.”

Fandral shook his head. “We are too few to attack them, Thor. 

“We have the high ground, the tactical superiority.”

Below, their forms growing indistinct in the hazy light, the trolls had shaken off the fear and uneasiness that the ravens had provoked. Sif could see them forming rank once more, pounding the butts of their spears against the ground in a ragged beat that grew steadily stronger. Her hand tightened on the dagger. “If we seek to attack, we must do it now, before they take the offensive.” 

Fandral gripped the hilt of his sword. “If we attempted Loki’s ruse first, to unnerve them . . . “

Thor snorted. “I’m not impersonating Ka’khet!”

“We must to do something,” Sif said, her voice rising. “Now. They’re bracing themselves to attack.”

Thor lifted a fist. “Then we will attack them first.”

Loki’s eyes flashed, though his face was still and stern. “That’s too large a risk.”

“It’s my risk to take.”

“It will be ours, as well, brother, if we’re forced to defend your back!”

Sif reached behind to free her spear from its scabbard; Fandral had drawn his sword.

And then, from the clifftop overhead, came a shouted alarm, a harsh bellow of fear. It was echoed by a ringing caw that rattled off the cliff’s rocky face. Two black shapes sliced through the drifting smoke, wings whirring, and at their tails came dozens, hundreds more, a great swirling current of inky black feathers, a river of ravens.

In an instant, Sif found herself in a vortex of flickering shadows and gleaming eyes. The flock skimmed the boundaries of the ledge; the air rustled with the beat of their wings. She whirled, trying to track the flow of their soaring flight, as they wheeled as one and plunged downslope like a cresting wave.

At her side, Fandral’s sword dropped from his slackened grip. He shot a stunned glance at her, and muttered, “What in all the Hels . . . ?”

In the hollow below, the beat of the trolls’ spears against the ground faltered. Their heads tipped back; their black eyes widened. The flock dived at them, wind whistling through stiff flight feathers, and the spears began to topple as their wielders threw up their arms in gestures that were half defensive fear, half worshipful supplication. A moan rose from several of their throats, hardly audible in the cacophony of raven voices, a tattered sound that formed itself into a name: “Ka’khet . . .”

Loki whirled, his face set and urgent, his voice low and fierce. “We must do it now! Attack them, brother, as you wished, but do it as Ka’khet!”

Their eyes locked; Sif could feel the strain of will between them, and a knot of echoing tension pulled itself tight in the midst of her throat. Beside her, Fandral shifted uneasily. For a moment, the only sound was the discordant choir of ravensong. Then, suddenly, Thor ground out, his face set in harsh lines, “So be it. I will attack, Sif and Fandral will back me, and you will frighten them off with your tricks.”

“Frighten them? You underestimate me, brother. I will perform a far greater wonder.” Loki held up his hands; glimmering power outlined every joint in his fingers. “I will make them _believe_.”

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! I'm very, very sorry!
> 
> So, I've strayed a bit afield from the bare structure of the Thrymskvitha with this chapter, but at least it allows Thor a chance to unleash his inner goddess . . .
> 
> Thanks SO MUCH for reading!


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